Sleepwalker
by Mistique Mistress
Summary: Kurt Hummel has his reasons for everything. A reason for the dreams, the fashion, even the facials. He just whishes he knew the reason behind the haunted nights he's cursed with. Now enter Dave Karofsky, who might just have a few reasons of his own..
1. Prologue

**Sleepwalker, a Glee fanfiction by DarkMistress.**

**_Kurt Hummel has his reasons.  
A reason for the facials, a reason for the near obsession with fashion. He has a reason for the fact that he __doesn't sleep in a dorm like everyone else and there's a reason for his desperate need to live his dream, the only good one he's ever had.  
A reason for his moments of bitchyness, as well as the tenderness he feels towards those he loves.  
There might even be a reason for the pain, like there is a reason for everything.  
If only he knew the reason behind the haunted nights he's cursed with._Prologue**

_**Enter one Dave Karofsky, who might just have a few reasons of his own.**_

* * *

**Prologue**

The eyes of Burt Hummel flew open, green eyes staring into the darkness; disoriented at first, but quickly realising why he was roused from his sleep, again.

_Kurt_.

He sighed, gently pulling the covers away, in order not to wake Carol and sat up, running his hands over his face. Again. Time and time again. He still couldn't quite accept the feeling of helplessness he felt at this moment. Because he knew what would happen, what _was_ happening now.

Burt was both glad and terrified that he'd been woken up, even after all these years.  
Glad because he didn't always hear it, or felt it. He wasn't exactly the most sensitive person around; he was the first to admit that. Glad because he wasn't always there, even though he wanted to.  
The number of times he woke had dropped over the last years, even more so since Carol and Finn moved in with them.  
And even though Kurt had assured him it was fine, that Burt needed his sleep and he could handle it, he still felt bad, knowing his son was hurting. It was like a constant nudge in the back of Burt's mind.  
And it was the reason he was terrified, walking through the dark hallway, past Fin's room and towards the sound-proof basement.  
It had to be bad, very bad, if he'd woken like this.

He rested his hand on the knob of the basement-door; the soft, smooth metal so different from his calloused hands.  
He pushed the door open quickly, slipping inside and nearly tripping down the small set of stairs.  
The room was lit, though dimly, because Kurt, for reasons obvious, never slept without his lights on.

He already heard Kurt's voice, his heavy breathing, and the tousling of his small body. All the pained little sounds amplified in his head.  
With a worried, nearly pained expression on his face, Burt hurried to his son's bed.

A small, fragile groan of discomfort was released from Kurt's lips as he frantically turned around in his sleep, as though he was trying to hide from whatever haunted him tonight.  
His legs already entwined with his sheets, he looked even smaller then usual and when Burt stroked the chestnut hair from the sweaty forehead, Kurt's skin felt ice-cold.  
_Maybe it wasn't that bad_, he prayed, _maybe they would go easy on Kurt tonight. _

Suddenly, the boy on the bed let out a loud, gurgling scream, making Burt wince as his upper body bucked up, nearly making him fall off the bed.  
Burt ignored every fatherly-instinct to reach out and try to make it go away, he knew better then to try and wake him, during. So he suppressed the need to comfort.  
Instead he just grasped a flailing hand and held it, whispering soothing words to Kurt. His little boy.

It pained him so much to see Kurt like this, every time again.  
He'd hoped Carol's presence would help, or heck, even Finn's. But nothing had helped and if anything, Kurt's situation had gotten worse. Burt hadn't thought that was even possible.

He grimaced when Kurt let out another painful moan and screamed again, louder this time. His feet were moving restlessly, confined by the blankets and he tried to pull his hand from Burt's, but the mechanic didn't let go. Stronger then his son, always small for his age –another result of sleep deprivion– he managed to grasp both of Kurt's wrists and hold them down against his sides.  
It wouldn't be the first time kid had hurt himself in his sleep.  
Kurt yelled and writhed and tried to break away from the harsh grip. Or maybe the nightmares, Burt wasn't sure.  
He could only stare at his son's pale face and the shadows of bruises that showed beneath his closed eyes, now that he had removed all of the concealer.

Few knew the moisturising routines, facials and towlettes weren't just out of vanity.

Eventually, when he couldn't take it anymore, he sat on the bed and pulled his boy into his arms, just holding him.  
The psychiatrist had said the presence of a loved one might help calm Kurt's subconscious down.  
Even though Kurt had dismissed the nice man as an incompetent fool, Burt hadn't forgotten anything the man told them.

So he held Kurt, the boy himself unaware, –still agonised by his own mind— just like he'd held him so many times since the dreams started.

Kurt's been terrorized by the nightmares since he was eight. Every single night after the funeral.  
At first, Burt had thought it was Kurt's way of mourning, sad and lost without his mother, whom he had shared such a strong bond with. He'd always been a sensitive, emotional child and Burt, though he hated hearing his son in pain, had thought it would eventually go away. That Kurt, at least, would move on.

But the nightly terrors hadn't stopped.

They had to learn to adjust to Kurt's… disease.

It had been Kurt's idea to move into the sound-proof basement, the place where his mother used to practice her instruments, in order not to upset the neighbours.  
Burt himself had made Kurt try every doctor; all the sleep-medicines and any psychiatrist they suspected could help them. None of it actually worked, but Burt had been able to tell Kurt appreciated the effort, though he was usually dead-bored at any kind of appointment and hated swallowing things he didn't know the origins of.

Burt had tried to talk about the dreams with Kurt, but somehow, this always resulted in a failure. They were simply too bad, too indescribable for Kurt.  
He had forced Kurt into bed when he refused to sleep for days, because even though he hated the nightmares just as much as Kurt did, he didn't want him in the hospital.  
The elder Hummel had held the younger all night when things got bad.  
But still Burt felt like he should and should've done more, though he couldn't possibly think of what he could do more.

Then there was the bullying, the extra load of having been the only gay kid at McKinley high. He'd received death-threads, simply because of who he was. Ridiculous.

Burt looked down at the face of his son, now buried in his chest; somehow, finally, having recognised his father though the cloud of sleep. He couldn't fathom why anybody would want to hurt him.

The kid was only frowning now, cutely scrunching his nose, the moans succumbed, but Burt knew the worst had yet to come; it always came in waves.

His eyes fell on the warbler's uniform, folded neatly on Kurt's desk. Once more he sighed; for he still wasn't sure if that decision had been the right one.  
Burt Hummel had never been one to run away from his problems, but he realised Kurt couldn't exactly punch his problem in the face, like Burt would've done his age.  
The boy in his arms, already so tormented by the nightmares, ridiculed by his peers, didn't deserve to be scared both night_ and_ day.  
So they transferred him, to a place where he couldn't be his regular, extravagant self. Where the whole individuality-thing he held so high was fairly nonexistent.  
He was part of the crowd now, but at least he was safe.

Burt wasn't sure, however, if he was happy, too.

But there was nothing he could do. There was never anything he could do.  
So he just held Kurt, like he'd done all these years, all those nights. He held his little boy close as he screamed and trashed. His arms never budged, though they were scratched and bitten at. He didn't even think of letting go, because it was the only thing he could do and he be damned if he would loose that too.

They sat like that all night, a lone, silent tear trailing over Burt's cheek and mixing with those on Kurt's porcelain skin.  
What else was there to do? What else but love?

* * *

**Major thanks and smoochies to my lovely girl ****hanna no tsuki-chan**** for the pre-read.  
Leave some love on your way out! **


	2. No need to throw a fit, Fancy

Sometimes Kurt felt like a ghost.

Not because he didn't attract the amount of attention he was used to at McKinley High at Dalton Academy.  
No, it wasn't that, even though he couldn't help feeling like he was slightly invisible –to everyone except the Warblers— but because his head was completely fogged and he felt like a total wreck; weak and see-through.  
Just like a ghost.  
And not just any kind of ghost, like a pale, just-murdered, awful-looking ghoul. He probably had red-shot eyes, too.  
Wonderful.

The newest member of the Warblers let out a long-stretched half-sigh, half-moan, as he dropped his bag next to the couch and dropped down next to Blaine, whose body bounced slightly with Kurt's on the luxurious couch.

"You look like you just crawled out of a grave," David commented dryly, raising an eyebrow at Kurt from his place at the window, his hands neatly folded behind his back.

"I think he's aware of that, David," Blaine reprimanded him, before turning to Kurt, who was pathetically hanging upside-down beside him, arm swung dramatically over his head, "so what's up with you?"

Kurt cracked one eye open to stare at Blaine for a few seconds.  
"I'm fairly tired," he weakly answered, eventually.

Now _that_, was a bit of an understatement. Kurt felt more then just 'tired'. He felt pretty darn exhausted, dead beat, near-fainting-tired. _Fairly_.  
His eyes were drooping already, comfortably spread out next to Blaine and Wes, the latter only silently laughing at David's playful eye-roll.

"You're always tired," he said, "lots of nightly activities, I assume?"

Wes wiggled his eyebrows as Kurt scowled at him, exhaled a tired; "Shut up, Wes," and threw a pillow square in his face.

Wes's face looked like he'd just walked into a wall. A very soft, feathery wall.  
"And still," he growled, ignoring the howls of laughter from the others, "your aim is impeccable."

Kurt shot him a half-hearted, crooked-grin and sighed again, with such a suffering undertone that Blaine looked honestly worried.

"Maybe you should go home," he suggested, placing a hand on Kurt's forehead and frowning, "you indeed look a little sick and you're feeling hot."

Kurt pushed his hand away, groaning as he sat up.  
"I can't go home every time I feel a little tired," he countered, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose, briefly brushing his hair back in place.

"If only you had a dorm, you could catch up on sleep a little in between hours, you know?" Wes hinted, the pillow already forgotten and concerned about his friend.

"I'm fine, guys, I just have one period left, I'll survive," said Kurt, standing up and stretching. He picked up his bag again and threw it over his shoulder, swinging a bit on his feet as he did so, not completely honest to his friends; he wasn't sure if he could take another hour.

He held on to the strap of his shoulder-bag and stared at his now silent friends for a second, feeling a little guilty for leaving them in the dark about what was really bothering him, but he refused to be seen as a pathetic cry-baby, scared of a few bad-dreams.

Nobody really understood the first time he told them, they always thought he was over-exaggerating again. Being a drama-queen and the diva they all knew, or thought they knew him, to be.  
But it just wasn't like that, he didn't want attention –or at least, not for that— he just wanted the horrific images to stop. Maybe just for people to _understand_.

But they didn't, he thought remorsefully, on the way to his next class, the most part of his brain concentrating on just getting one designer-shoe-clad foot in front of the other.

Finn hadn't truly believed him when they informed his new step-brother about the nightmares, not until he found Kurt, asleep on the couch and screaming his throat hoarse in the middle of the night, after a too-long marathon of Grey's Anatomy.  
Only then did he believe, slapped in the face with the harsh truth; that something was wrong with him.

But even now Finn, and Carole for that matter, didn't truly get what was going on with the singer. They didn't know the dreams that haunted him, or why Kurt would refuse to sleep when things got bad. Nobody really got it, so even in that, he stood alone.

He was just grateful he had his dad.

He pondered on the subject during his next, awfully long period, his head resting on his hand, not really paying attention to what the teacher was saying.  
He wanted to tell Blaine and Wes and David. He really did! But somehow, he couldn't make himself do it. He was afraid to do so.  
Afraid of rejection or empathy, he didn't know, but the fact was that he just didn't, even though his new friends must suspect something was wrong with him, other then the whole bullying ordeal, which still was the main excuse whenever they would start digging.

At moments like that, he really missed Mercedes, who had never continued questioning him when he said he didn't want to.  
He should give her a call tonight, he decided, but immediately felt guilty, because that would mean using her as a distraction.

As tired as he felt, there was no way he was going to sleep tonight, not after last time. Not after the shadows of his mind that had torn him apart just days ago. He was death-scared they would come to him again.

The dreams had gotten so much worse; ever since he joined Dalton Academy and it made Kurt feel even more depressed about the whole thing, because for a spare few months he'd believed the dreams were finally starting to ease. He had gained the hope they would finally go away, when he realised the nightmares had lost their edge.  
All hope had been crushed when they came back full force and worse then ever before.

He wasn't sleeping, no way.  
He'd do homework, or re-organise his wardrobe again. He'd design a few things on his computer or maybe even play that video-game Finn gave him, trying to be helpful and explaining to Kurt— would always… up in the late hours of the night… Maybe he should…

His head dropped off his hand and he vigorously blinked, shaking his head instinctively; pulling himself back to consciousness.

He couldn't fall asleep, not now, not here, not anytime soon! Not until the images of his last nightmare had evaporated from his mind.

It was just really bad right now, he tried to convince himself as he packed his bag quickly, eager to get home and give his body some awake-rest by just lying on the couch or something.

The idea of the couch sounded heavily, though he knew he couldn't let himself drowse off.  
Carole was home.

He sped through the hallway of Dalton Academy, here and there knocking into some people he didn't bother looking at. He just wanted to get out of here and to a soft surface he could crash his exhausted body on.

He hated moments like this, where he almost became desperate for a little untroubled sleep, but sleep was never untroubled for him. Never untroubled for anyone around him.

Not that his father didn't deserve his happiness with Carole Hudson, now Carole Hummel, but it did bring a few complications. He wasn't just troubling Burt now, but Carole too and he hated that.  
His step-mother was ever so concerned about him, trying to take care of him, but usually failing adorably. He appreciated the effort, though it never worked, and he adored the extra-strong cappuccinos she would make for him.

Burt sucked at making cappuccinos; Kurt thought fondly, his vision hazy for a second as he walked down the lawn and towards his car.

He really shouldn't be driving in a state like this, his limbs feeling like lead and his head swimming with the need for sleep, but he rather take the chance then walk or bike the distance to his house every-day.

He climbed into the car, starting it and carefully driving out of the parking-lot.

To his relief, he made his way to the main street without hitting anyone. Even managing to switch from second into third gear without messing up.

Maybe he should ask Finn to pick drop him off at school tomorrow, which was luckily a Friday.  
He mused about the idea, doubting Finn would like getting up that early. McKinley was a lot closer to their house then Dalton.

Asking wouldn't hurt him, he decided. Finn was a good guy and still owned him after the help with this math.

He was almost glad the crush on him had evaporated, though it'd been more then satisfyingly distracting for a while, things with Finn were so more relaxed now.

Relaxed. Such a nice word…

Kurt's hands clenched around the steering wheel.  
"Damn-it, Kurt, don't get yourself killed," he hissed, towards nothing in particular, except maybe his phone, which was lying on the passenger's seat, along with his bag.

He looked outside, suddenly noticing he was passing McKinley.

School was long over here too, of course, but there were a few late students and people with detention that lingered, but it was mostly just nice seeing the familiar shape of the school again.

With sadness coursing through him, Kurt pushed the pedal down, really wanting to go home now and curl up into a tiny ball. Foetus position, most rather.

"Don't think about it," he told his phone, "just keep on driving."

Tears already prickled in his eyes and he furiously blinked them away, refusing to cry over the memory of his old school; that was past him, something to forget.  
Even though he missed the New Directions like crazy… he still couldn't quite believe they were going to do separate regionals…  
Singing without him…

CRASH!

Kurt's body lunged forward, luckily held back by the seatbelt, squeezing him painfully around his stomach and chest.

His head pounded because of the impact of the crash and for a few moments he could only dazedly stare at the dashboard, before his mind let reality catch up with him.  
He just crashed into something, something solid and it hurt.

"Shit," he muttered, very uncharistically and shakily released himself from the seatbelt, stepping out of his car on legs that felt like Jelly, seeing that he'd crashed all right.  
The left side-front of his car hat hit the other car, which had been standing still, apparently. It wasn't even head-on, but his bumper was totally wrecked and he moaned in irritation when he saw the front-light pathetically dangling out of its holder.

A brief look told him the other person's car was relatively fine. It was a big, hummer-resembling thing and Kurt suspected there wouldn't be a dent to be found.

Nonetheless, the owner of the other car had also hurried towards the front of his car, immediately checking through the front window of Kurt's–maybe to see if anyone was hurt?— and then letting his eyes trail to the young man himself, who had completely forgotten about the accident the moment he saw the face of the other driver.

Kurt had staggered back several steps, back onto the side walk, where he stared, wide-eyes, at the familiar frame that had terrified him so much; the very reason why he'd left McKinley High.

"Ku— Hummel?" said Dave Karofsky.

"Karofsky," was the only thing Kurt could manage.

His tired body seemed to tenfold any fear he felt and the adrenaline from the car-crash was finally leaving his system, leaving him even more exhausted then before, his whole body shaking with the effort to stay upright and black dots appeared into his vision.

"What are you doing here?" Karofsky asked, no trace of the usual, ignorant hate in his voice. He sounded astonished, if anything, but Kurt still felt the need to bitch.

"Last time I checked, this was still a public road, I'm allowed to pass by, dimwit," he slurred, crossing his arms at a slow pace.

"No need to throw a fit, fancy," Karofsky replied, still staring at Kurt like he was an actual ghost appearing right in front of his eyes, completely ignoring Kurt's glare.

"It was an accident!" the soprano told him, as if Karofsky hadn't guessed as much already, missing his hip, where he wanted to plant his hand and staggering forwards a few steps.

God he was tired, so, so tired…

"It's fine. You're fine," he mumbled, trying to find something to hold onto, unsure if he was still the one in control of his body, "I'm fine… I'm– fine…"

Karofsky's face was looking concerned now, walking towards him like he wanted to help, though Kurt couldn't fathom why Karofsky would ever feel worried about something, let alone him.  
He breathed out a surprised 'Oh…' when he finally toppled over, the hands that had hurt him so many times reaching for him, his face positively horrified as he watched Kurt drop to the surface of the ground.

It was the last thought he had, before his head hit the pavement and his vision blacked out.

_It's the first time I've seen him when he's not scowling. How curious.  
_

* * *

Dave's heart felt like it plummeted right into the stratosphere when he watched Kurt Hummel drop to the ground in a dead faint. It seemed to go in slow-motion; the small body loosing all control and crashing down like a puppet whose strings had been cut.  
And even that he seemed to do graceful, how in hell?

"Jesus, shit!" He cursed, staring at the boy for a few seconds before swearing again and hurrying over.  
He dropped down on his knees next to not caring that the ground was really gross, though he suspected Fancy would love to throw a fit about it, if he wasn't knocked out, of course.  
He would admit it; he was worried; Kurt had always looked fragile to him. Not quite capable of taking a hit, though he'd proven quite strong when Dave… had done that.

He shook his head, clearing his mind; he had to make sure the chestnut-haired singer was okay. First things first.

He quickly went over all the possibilities in his head, something instinctual kicking in, making him carefully turn Kurt around, supporting his head by spreading his fingers just below his skull. He examined the pale face, which was completely void of any emotion, and carefully searched for any sign of serious damage.

The first thing he noticed were the bags underneath Kurt's closed eyes; shadows of black bruises standing out to the sickly-white colour of his skin.  
Also, Kurt was breathing, that was always a bonus.

But Dave didn't see immediate cause for a drop down like this, other then the fact that Kurt looked like he hadn't slept in days.

Only partially relieved, he slid his phone from the pocket of his jeans and pressed speed-dial.

He stared at the cars for a moment, before deciding they were of secondary importance, as he impatiently waited for the bleeps that would indicate his call had gotten through.  
You never knew, after all.

"Good afternoon, Lima-memorial hospital, what can I do for you?" A bored, monotone voice mumbled at him.

He swallowed, hoisting Kurt up a bit more so he could support his torso –which was way too light, even for a small person like him— and answered softly; "Hi, can you put me on with Dr. Karofsky? It's an emergency."

"Of course, you're lucky; she's on her break," he knew that, "one moment, please."

He stared at Kurt's face impatiently, scared by Kurt's unchanging silence more and more as the seconds ticked by and almost willing the damn receptionist to go faster.  
Then, the awaited bleep blared in his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hi, mom…"

* * *

"For the last time, no, I had nothing to do with this, dad." – "Yes, yes, I know, I'm sorry." – "Thanks, you're the best." – "Yeah, I'll try to remember that… Bye."

He tiredly hung up the phone, rubbing the bridge of his nose and leaning against the white-plastered wall of the hospital.

This place, normally so relaxing to all his senses, seemed hostile and empty now. He didn't know how to deal with it.

He angrily kicked at the wall; he didn't know how to deal with all of this shit!

He sighed, absently staring towards the end of the IC hallway. He was just grateful his dad was willing to deal with all the other shit, like the cars and the police, so Dave could stay in the hospital.  
Somehow, his father had caught on to this desire, though he wasn't sure if it was because he wanted to make sure Kurt was okay –because, why the hell would he want that, after all?— or because he wanted to avoid Burt Hummel at the car shop.

He just was sure the man wasn't going to like his son lying in the sterile-white, hospital bed, attached to several devices and IV's with dubious liquids Dave hadn't been able to identify before he was pushed outside by an annoyed nurse.

Not when Dave himself despised it so much. It was like the whole body of the glee-club singer was being swallowed by the bed, only his hair and lips standing out against the white, the rest of him as white as the sheets.

Dave shuddered; it wasn't a very pretty image. So very different from the cared-of appearance Kurt Hummel normally sported. Bare of any kind of distraction, Kurt had looked bare.

His head shot op when the door opened and his mother walked out, softly closing the door behind her.

She smiled at his immediate worried stare, grasping her clipboard a bit more firmly before speaking two relieving words; "He's fine."

Kurt's former torturer slumped against the wall in relief, his heart feeling like it only now slowed down, after the accident.

"His body is exhausted though," his mother continued, "and we have reason to believe he went without sleep for nearly four or five days."

Dave only briefly looked up at this, he'd expected the exhausted-part, but four to five days was pretty over-the-top, even for Kurt.  
The only words he heard clearly though were 'he's fine', 'he's fine'.

But why would Kurt go without sleep for so long? Was that new preppy school so hard on him?

"Do you know of any psychological problems he might be suffering off? You know him, don't you? And the sooner we know the better; it might be too late when his father arrives."

Dave shook his head, he'd never heard of Kurt having any kind of problem, except for Dave himself.

"Fine then," his mother sighed, "go in then, I think the kid could use a little company."

"Thanks mom," Dave breathed, briefly touching her shoulder before brushing past her and into the room.

He was relieved when he saw most monitors had been removed and Kurt was only attached to one IV and a little tube in his nose for oxygen. Relieved at the colour on Kurt's face, reminding him more of the boy he used to push into the lockers then the pale-white sheet of unconsciousness.

He really felt guilty for that now.

Without warning, Kurt's heart monitor suddenly started beeping loudly and fast-paced and Kurt's body started trembling on the bed.

Panic flooded back into Dave's system, as he hurried towards the bed, watching in horror as Kurt's face contorted and he released a scream of absolute pain.  
Dave had never heard a cry so agonised, but Kurt's eyes remained firmly closed. A nightmare?

Not knowing what to do, Dave pressed the red, emergency-button that would call the nurse and stared at the boy in horror. His hands moving around wildly, as if trying to scratch at unseen faces, trying to get away from them.  
Another desperate moan rose from what seemed the depths of his chest and Dave once more felt the nudge of instinct in the back of his mind and he grasped Kurt's hand, placing the other at his shoulder.

He smiled when the beeping stopped and Kurt's breathing slowed down, his body only faintly trembling in after-shocks.  
He didn't let go of Kurt's hand once as he sat down beside the bed. The small, warm hand fitted perfectly in his.

* * *

**Who else loved the super-bowl episode and fell in love with Karofsky? **


	3. Ham hock had been holding his hand?

**A/n  
Dude(tte)s, relax! Of course I loved Karofsky before the superbowl! No need to tell me he was awesome before this in right about twenty reviews…!  
Well, actually— you do! I mean holy heck guys, so much love! Vous Rockez!  
*wipes tears***

This chapter is forever dedicated to my lovely little uke, personal stalker, cheerleader and the yin to my yang: hanna no tsuki-chan. Happy birthday, honey!  
She has a crush on Dave, so especially for her, we get a glimpse into his head ^-^…

-

Sometimes, Dave really did feel like a ham hock.

Feel like a lumpish, languid brute with no sense of where to put his limbs.  
And there was nothing he could do about it, no damn thing.  
_  
_Usually he didn't want to either, because he kind of liked towering over everybody else.  
He spend a lot of time on the field and in the weight room to get and stay fit.  
Dave _loved_ feeling his muscles strain and work. He liked the fact that he was strong, muscular and sometimes he would enjoy the fact that people would actually back away from him when they saw him.  
He'd feel guilty for it, somewhere in the back of his mind, but fact was; Dave Karofsky wasn't someone you messed with. Period.

But sometimes, especially next to someone like Kurt, he wished he wasn't so buff. That he wasn't quite so intimidating. That he wouldn't be frightening to others. To Kurt.

Kurt who was smaller then most of the guys Karofsky had ever known.  
Dave felt like he could overpower the boy with a flick of his wrist; that he could just lift him up, throw Kurt over his shoulder and walk away, without Kurt being able to do anything about it.  
He could hurt him with only the slightest move and he'd always gone out of his way to achieve just that; Kurt's pain.

Why? Dave didn't know either. He just did.

Right now, with a complexion so pale his skin was tinted bluish where the skin was thinnest, Kurt looked even more delicate then ever.  
There were no fancy clothes, no distracting accessories, not even the usual twinkle in his green eyed, accusing glare. The fierce distaste he felt for Dave obviously floating in the irises. Kurt's eyes had always been full of his emotions, even if his exterior was ice-cold. Dave could always see the pain and the fright in them when he threw him down.  
Hate and pain, those were the only reactions he arose in Kurt.

And he'd been fine with that, too. He'd mused that Kurt should be able to take it like a man, that he would get over it. The boy's fear had slid right of the cold, hard surface of Dave's appearance and reputation. Off the shield that he spend years building.  
He had only started to doubt himself and the way he treated him when the flamboyant boy had broke right through that wall, constantly lingering in Dave's peripheral vision.

Then he'd kissed him, threatened him and he joined the preppy school like some coward…  
Or like someone who had been so afraid that he didn't see an option other then running away, flee from Dave, because he'd scared him away.

The look Kurt had gave him right before he fainted had said more then enough, more then all his words ever could; he was terrified and he'd barely been able to look Dave in the eye.

He blinked, remembering the haunting look in Kurt's eyes, softly stroking the palm of Kurt's IV'd hand. He faintly smiled at the softness of it.  
He felt guilty, because he felt undeserving of the warmth in his hand, but it felt too good to let go.

He never would've thought he'd see Kurt like this; in a hospital bed, looking like he was out of complete control. And like he might actually break into thousand pieces.  
Because through it all, Kurt had never actually been weak. Ever.  
In fact, he might as well be one of the strongest persons Dave had ever encountered as well— on the inside.

Kurt always demanded a sort of gentleness on the other party's behalf, a degree of attentiveness like when you handle porcelain or something equally fragile. He said; please be careful, I bruise easily, but other than that I'll be fine.

And he was. He always pulled through; he always managed to see the best in situations. Dave knew enough about him to know that.

Not that he knew much about Kurt at all, other then that he had some kind of extraordinary voice or something, but that was kind of obvious.

Kurt always turned things around to go his way. He always won and he always did it _his_ way. Which was, most of the time, the weirdest way imaginable.  
Or rather, unimaginable. No one in his sane mind would come up with the things that Kurt did.  
He walked around like Lady GaGa in heels. Like McHammer –able to pull off the look as well— and he _auditioned_ for the football team.  
And now he was here, finally defeated.

"Damn it, Hummel, can't you do _anything_ normal for a change?" He cursed at the sleeping boy, not even caring anymore about what had gotten Kurt down in the first place.

He wanted to yank his hand away from Kurt's and throw something across the room. He wanted to destroy something _very_ badly.  
Right now, he wanted to hurt and bruise and_ break_.  
Because he didn't know what else to do. He just _sat _there. Staring at Kurt's face…  
So he didn't do anything. For once, maybe too late, he restrained himself. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath and pushing the anger down.

The anger he felt because of his dad, the anger he felt because of his friends, the anger he felt because of those damn glee kids, the anger he felt at Kurt and Kurt leaving McKinley.  
Mostly the anger at directed at himself.

He jumped when Kurt's nimble fingers suddenly wrapped around his hand softly.

It was an unconscious move, but somehow, it completely calmed Dave down again.  
He sighed and squeezed back, even if the nurse had said Kurt was out completely.  
People in comas could hear too, right? 

He shifted in his chair, trying to stay awake until the nurse came, wanting to keep an eye on the young intern. He'd spend more years in the hospital then she had, after all.  
He wanted them to find out what was wrong with Kurt.  
Maybe just because he wanted to make sure it wasn't _him_. Maybe because he sort of– cared. A little.

He heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Finally.

Opposite to his expectations –the soft opening of a door and a sweet nurse's face peeking in to check on Kurt— the door flew open and a _very _concerned looking Burt Hummel stormed into the room, Dr. Mom following right behind the man who looked like his whole world had just collapsed.

"Sir! You can't just barge in like this, it could hurt your son's recovery and it's against hospital policy… Sir!"

"Kur— _You!_" Burt hissed, his eyes first landing on Kurt's still form, confusion on his face, before turning towards Karofsky. Who, only now he remembered, looked very recognisable in his football-jersey.

Dave's eyes immediately widened; Kurt sure didn't have the dangerously trembling muscles the man sported.  
And he definitely didn't have as much reason to hurt Dave as Burt had, the man's eyes darkened dangerously, narrowing at Karofsky with a very familiar glare.  
Did all Hummels liked to glare at him?

Behind him, noticed an equally distressed Finn Hudson, who looked more clueless to find Karofsky here than anything, and a brunette woman. Hudson's mom.

His main focus remained on the very pissed looking mechanic, though.  
He gulped and grasped Kurt's hand even tighter, like he knew what was going to happen and before he knew it, they were ripped apart and Dave's back was, once again, slammed against a wall by Burt Hummel.

"You did this to him, didn't you!" Hummel's dad screamed in his face in such a way Dave felt spatters of spit land on his face.

"Mr. Hummel!" Dr. Mom nearly yelled in horror.

"No, I didn't! He slammed into _my _fucking car!" Dave grumbled back, trying to pry the older man's fingers from his shirt, "I didn't do anything but bring him to the hospital in the first place!"

"Yeah right," Hudson suddenly chimed in, sneering at Karofsky with a hateful look Dave hadn't ever seen on his quarterback's face, "everybody knows you hate Kurt for some reason or another. I was starting to think you weren't that bad, but you _love_ hurting him."  
Dave couldn't help but think this was one of the first smart things he'd ever heard Fi— Hudson say, along with the Lady GaGa rant, but that still didn't count in his mind.

"Sirs, I really have to ask you to step away from my son and you really shouldn't be screaming in the presence of…" his mother tried again.

"Its fine, mom," said Dave, linking his eyes briefly with hers, surprisingly making her bite her lower lip to stay silent.

Hudson, in the mean time, had put his hand on Burt's shoulder, pulling softly so Burt had to step away from him. Both glared at him with the intensity of probably ten eco-friendly light bulbs.

Dr. Mom shook her head and then simply walked out of the room. Dave was glad to learn she trusted him at least that much.

"You're probably just here to see him suffer," Hummel chimed into his thoughts.

"He isn't suff—"

Kurt chose that exact moment to suddenly start yelling again, as if dead-terrified of something, and both of the men in front of him immediately turned towards the bed— along with Dave himself.

The brunette was standing next to the bed with a look of guilty shock on her face, obviously not knowing what to do as she tried to hush Kurt. Petting his scrunched-up face.

Dave thought this was extremely weird. Shouldn't they be calling the nurse?

Kurt kept on moaning and yelling, though this time he didn't move. He just yelled, his expression one of true horror.

Hudson was at his bed in a glimpse, while Burt was halfway there, undecided whether he should comfort his son or keep an eye on the jock.

Dave really felt like an asshole now, considered a serious threat just by being in the same room as Kurt. Hated not only by the boy on the bed, but by his family as well.  
There was no doubt he'd done some serious damage there. He tried to look guilty.  
And failed.

"Kurt, c'mon man, wake up," Finn tried, grasping the exact same hand Kurt had released just moments ago, his only reaction a toe-curling screech.

Hudson looked down at the hand in confusion, his head turning towards Dave, to rest his glance on his hand.  
Dave stuck it into the pocket of his jeans awkwardly; he'd seen that look on Hudson's face before. It was the same as when he was trying to figure out a particular hard math-problem.

Dave averted his eyes, turning to Mr. Hummel instead.

"Listen, nothing happened and I really don't…" He started.

"Out."

Dave blinked at the man, "Sorry?"

"I said _out!_" Burt sneered, his face a mask of professional anger, "I don't want you anywhere near him, understand?"

"But sir, I–" he tried again.

The man's calloused hands grabbed him by his jersey without warning and started dragging him to the door.  
"Out," were his final words, "and don't you dare come back. Don't come _anywhere_ near him or I won't be so kind."

And the door was slammed into his face, Kurt's last bloodcurdling scream echoing in his ears.

-

_No please no, don't leave me! Don't please! I don't want them to come back._

I'm lost; I don't know where to go! Please take me away from here, I'm so scared.

Don't let go. Please don't go away. Don't let them hurt me again, no more. Please… no more. 

With a gasp, he shot up, as he was pulled away from the last tentacles of his nightmare. Panting heavily as the horrifying images ebbed away, he groaned at the physical pain they left behind. Wounding him on the inside and leaving him tired and disoriented.

Though not as exhausted as normally, he thought, his head still swimming in the dazed tangles of the dream.  
He didn't linger on the thought, for fear rose in his chest when he hurriedly took in his surroundings.

He blinked at the light that shone into his eyes, confused as to why he wasn't surrounded with the familiar things of his basement, or the sounds of the TV.  
The voice talking to him certainly wasn't a TV-voice, or a movie-voice. He could conclude that much, even though the blood was still pounding in his ears.

Where was he?

The last thing he remembered was… Karofsky. Dave Karofsky and his– his car.  
He'd slammed into Karofsky's car.  
That served him well. 

He slowly became aware of the voice talking to him again and he realised it was his father, sitting next to his bed with a half-worried, half-angry expression on his face.

Curious. 

But Kurt was relieved. The presence of his father, familiar and warm to his heart, instantly calmed the fear.  
The dream still lingered, though, and he could only slowly focus on what his father was telling to him.

"… thank the lord… can't believe… drive while you knew things weren't going well! God Kurt you should've… please say something…" 

He blinked at his father again, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Burt's voice sounded aspirated.

"Calm down, dad, it's bad for your heart," he mumbled, "I'm fine."  
Funny thing, he sort of _was_.

"Don't you dare talk about my health when you're in the hospital, you're _not_ fine," Burt told him sternly, his face telling the smaller of the two whole different stories, "we were very worried there for a moment, you know? You really should know better then to drive after you skipped."

Right, that was it. He stopped sleeping again and fainted on the sidewalk right in front of Karofsky. Just brilliant.

He sat up, sending his father a thankful glance when he adjusted Kurt's pillows behind his back almost automatically, reaching out to him with an equal such gesture.

God, he hated those nightmares. Hated them with passion. They ruined his nights already, why did they feel the need to ruin his days too? He nearly cussed out loud.  
It was like those twilight vampires Tina was accused of being, who actually _could_ walk in the sunshine, instead of burning to a painful death like Dracula.

His life was far from sparkly, though, at the moment. No matter how much of a body the werewolf sported.

He yawned, allowing his father to softly stroke his hair as he leaned into his embrace. He let his eyes roam the room, smiling faintly at Carol, who returned the gesture and letting his eyes rest on Finn, who was gazing at him with a particular thoughtful expression.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hey, bro," Finn replied, smiling softly, "you okay?"

Kurt only nodded, folding his hands around his knees, glancing down at the sticker on his wrist.  
He'd been IV'd. Had it really been that bad?

"Mercedes is going to love hearing that, she freaked when she heard…" Finn said in the background.

He didn't _feel_ bad, he mused, doing an overall check of his body, everything seemed to be fine.  
Even his hair wasn't unfixable.

He felt kind of good, actually. More energetic then he normally was after a nightmare.  
It even… hadn't been as bad as usual. If that was possible.

Had it worked, then? Had he managed to make the dreams go mellow by denying them for so long?  
It seemed highly unlikely, but he couldn't stop the beast of hope from raising its head in his chest.

"Ahem," Someone cleared her throat, "I'm happy to see you awake, Kurt, so now that you're conscious…"  
A determined looking nurse looked at him with kind eyes from across the room; Kurt hadn't even noticed her before.  
Probably because her horrifying choice of clothes made her fade away in front of the even more horrible coloured wall.

To his horror, he realised he was wearing a gown in the same colour.

".. We would like to run a few tests, to see what is wrong with you. We already took some blood but…"

"That's a real smart thing to do, considering your patience fainted," Kurt interjected.

Her mouth faded into a sharp line as she suddenly stared at him sourly, instead of fake-kindly, "You won't miss the little amount we drew, I assure you, but we would also like to run a few things more, maybe do a few psychological…"

Burt laughed loudly and without humour, making her stop and stare at him, "Believe me, lady, we've tried those. Nothing works."

"But I'm sure we could," she tried again, the bun in the back of her neck bumping against her nape unattractively.

"We better head home now," Carol said, ignoring the sputtering nurse/doctor, addressing him instead, "you need your rest, Kurt."

"Right," Kurt answered, nodding to himself, though he really felt fine right now, "where did they leave my clothes?"

The nurse looked furious, several strands of hair loose in her red tinted face, "Will you please _stop _interrupt—"

Finn held up a little suitcase, shooting the nurse a bewildered glance when she threw her hands in the air and left when he said; "I have some."

Kurt smiled, not really caring for the nurse –he'd seen more then enough nurses to last him a lifetime— but eyed the suitcase with suspicion.

Finn recognised the look immediately, "Mercedes picked them out, I wouldn't dare touch your clothes, I value my life," he told him, not unkindly.

This relieved Kurt, Mercedes he trusted.  
He made a mental note to thank both of them later, appropriately.

His face fell when he noticed the black scarf in the suitcase.

He really didn't feel like black right now, not after the nightmare.  
Even though it had improved, it had still been bad for real.

He quickly worked through the routine of dressing remotely appropriately, shooing off the helpful hands of his father, who sported a look of deep-concern on his face that told Kurt this wasn't the last he would hear about this, and then they walked towards the main hall.  
Finn wouldn't even let him carry the suitcase, making him feel even more useless.

Burt's hand was at the small of his back the whole time; as if afraid Kurt would suddenly have a seizure or something.  
He probably _was_ afraid that would happen.

He was relieved to see Carol's explanation was taken very well bye the doctors.  
Just another case of an overworked teenager, nothing to worry about. They were very luckily insured for stuff just like this.

It was sad to see they were fooled so easily. Shouldn't they be trained to recognise lies like this?

He let his eyes roam, unable to look at the man and the still-pissed nurse behind the desk and noticed female doctor staring at him from behind a window.  
It was probably an office, with overview on the main hall, but he didn't really pay attention to that.  
For next to her stood a young man that immediately caught his attention.  
He had her exact shade of hair and the same thoughtful expression on his face.

_Karofsky_, his mind registered.  
And Karofsky's mother? She had to be, there was no way the resemblance and the fact he was standing next to her like that was a mere coincidence.  
But seriously, a doctor?

It was hard to believe the Neanderthal was actually from high-educated offspring.

"What is he doing here?" He hissed to Finn, who was still standing beside him, bored with his mother's story too.

"Karofsky?" A nod. "He took you here, was in your room until we showed up," Kurt's heart felt like it plummeted all the way up into his throat.  
Karofsky had taken him to the hospital, had taken care of him? That wasn't normal bully-behaviour.

"We threw him out, after you started screaming…"

Wait, he'd just started screaming at the hospital? That definitely wasn't normal; the ride from McKinley to this particular hospital took at least half an hour, if his mental map was right, not to mention that it was already dark outside, which meant a lot of time had passed since he left Dalton Academy.

"Bastard, probably liking to finally see you in the hospital," Burt muttered angrily, glaring at the window now, while Carol signed some papers.

"I don't know," Finn sounded thoughtful, his mouth opening adorably, like usual when he pondered on something, "he was holding your hand when we came in, he can't have had _that_ bad intensions, right?"

If Kurt had been drinking coffee, he would've spit it out into Finn's face for sure.

_Ham hock had been holding his hand_?

He glanced at Dave through the glass, the jock's eyes staring back intensely, squeezing his hand into a fist.  
Kurt didn't even notice the slap on his back and a doctor's joking voice telling him to take care of himself and sleep at the right times from now on.

Why? Why would he do that?

Finn and Carol lead him towards the exit, as if confirmed in their suspicions of him being more ill then he let on, when he didn't react anymore.

Then, Karofsky softly smiled and Kurt couldn't help but think how good he looked when he actually smiled.  
Like he was glad Kurt was fine.


	4. Care for him a little

A death-sentence, crying of a fictional character – sunrays peeping through the cracks in the curtain he wasn't bothered to close completely – his arm slung over his head to soothe the building headache, his feet swung equally over the back of the couch – a phone conversation between Carole and her son, something about Puck getting Finn in trouble with their Math-teacher, again – the sound of someone's brakes, probably trying to not-kill their neighbour's cat, again –another round of fake-crying.  
A deep sigh.

Or shortly said; Kurt was bored.

Any kind of boredom was usually a death-sentence for him, but today, caught in this weird rush of _energy_ that he hadn't experienced for _years_ and forbidden to do anything but rest… it was pure torture.  
He wasn't even allowed to _do his hair!_

He peeked from behind his arm, staring at the television. He knew things were bad when even McDreamy, McSteamy and McArmy couldn't distract him.  
In all honesty; he wasn't used to this, to sitting still.

He was naturally a very active person. He _liked_ working, doing things, being busy. This; practically tied to the couch and having nothing to do, irritated him, he was used to keeping himself occupied, but he had received very strict orders from Burt –very uncharistically— to do nothing except regain his energy, before he left for Hummel's tires and lube.

They didn't get that he hadn't felt this healthy since that time they'd drugged him into a near coma.  
And still nobody would, or could, tell him how that was possible.

He'd passed out before (though always in the safe confines of his room) and he'd never felt this way.  
Whatever they'd given him in the hospital, he'd _really _like to know and try that instead of, say, acupuncture.

The caffeine coursing through his veins after Carole's double –triple, quadruple?— cappuccino wasn't helping either.  
And it left him with quite the annoying tic in his bare left foot. Fabtastic.

The bell rang. Loud and obnoxious.

Kurt made a very unsanitised sound of annoyance when it kept ringing.  
_He_ was banned to the couch, so _he_ wasn't going to answer.

Instead, it was Carole that answered, her hair all over the place and wearing the same apron Kurt had begged her to throw out ever since she and Finn moved in.  
It still hurt his eyes to even look at the disastrous thing.

The voices coming from the door, however, piped up his interest immediately.

"Hi, Mrs. Hummel-Hudson," one said kindly, "can we come in?"

"We came to see if Kurt's okay," another said such a soft-whisper, Kurt had to strain his ears to hear.

"Of course, dears," Carole laughed good-heartedly, "Just be careful not to tire him out, okay?"

A chorus of okay's was heard before he heard the door being further opened and two, maybe three, pair of feet entered the house.

Kurt set up straight when they all approached the living room and a smile broke through on his face when he saw Mercedes, Rachel and surprisingly –or maybe not— Brittany standing in the doorway. The latter holding a surprisingly adorable plush bunny.

"Kurt Hummel, don't you ever scare us like that again," Mercedes said, immediately strolling forward when he stood from the couch to pull him into the warm, familiar hug he hadn't realised he'd been missing until now.

"Hey, 'Cedes," he answered softly, trying to keep his voice from sounding strained, failing miserably. Scarves, comforters, snuggie's and even Blaine didn't compare to the comfort of Mercedes' hugs. So he whispered a soft 'I'm sorry' into her ear before her presence in his arms was replaced with a slightly awkward Rachel.

They weren't _that _used to each other, mostly getting along because they both liked Mercedes and because of the shared experiences and diva-ness, but Kurt realised her presence did mean something to him.  
A lot, if he was honest.

"Finn told us what happened, like, precisely, we were so anxious after his phone-call to Mercedes last night," she said, successfully ripping him from his peaceful state, to tense at her meaning, "silly, you could've just let you inner-nerd out at McKinley, you know?"

He was clueless for a few seconds.

She raised an eyebrow, "Studying until you passed out? That can't be healthy, not even for your grades," she lectured, very Rachel-like.

Yeah, that sounded like an excuse Finn would come up with in the midst of realising he wasn't supposed to tell anyone about Kurt's little secret.  
Brilliant.

"Yeah! Of course, it was very stupid of me," he smiled crookedly at her and Mercedes.  
He could tell Mercedes didn't buy it, but trusted her to bring it up somewhere later, in private.

He then moved his attention to Brittany, who had simply been staring at their blooming Amaryllis, before she shyly extended her hand towards him.

"This is Snuggles, my grandma gave him to me, I always cuddle with him when I can't sleep," she explained, "he will help you sleep better until you have a boyfriend of your own to sleep with too!"

"Britta—" Rachel began, but Kurt didn't let her finish.

"Thank you," he said, instead, accepting the stuffed animal.

Odd as it was, it brought tears to the counter-tenor's eyes. He knew how much this little, probably drooled-on, bunny must mean to her. To give it a way was, to her, a meaningful sacrifice.

And really, even as a gay man, he couldn't resist the innocent, blissfully unaware smile.

"C'mon, sit down," he invited, "I'm sure Carole will—"

"Come to bring some drinks soon?" Carole Hummel finished her godson's sentence, entering the room with a plate of tea, coffee and coke.

"Since she won't let me do it myself," Kurt wittily replied, smiling at her nonetheless, his mood severely brightened by the visit of his friends, which made him feel awfully loved even though he'd told Blaine not to stop by when he'd talked to him yesterday.

"Because you were just released from the hospital," she answered in a monotone, putting down the drinks, "speaking of which, now that your friends are here, mind if I step out to buy some groceries?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, flopping down beside Mercedes, who had made herself comfortable on the couch, "I'm capable of taking care of myself."

"Yeah, we've seen that," she sighed, "And yes, I know that's not your fault, I'm just worried."

Kurt closed his mouth.

"Take care of him," she told the girls before she left the room, "call me when I have to come back!"

"Not a baby!" He shouted at the closing door.

Mercedes laughed, loud and heartily, like he was used of her, before she mock-pinched his cheek, "Such a baby,"  
Rachel snickered.

"It's true," Brittany nodded.

"Okay!" he semi-shouted, half-laughing too, "let's put on the music!"  
He was already walking towards their, mostly his, CD stand and dusting imaginary bits of dust off his dress-shirt, which he luckily _had_ been allowed to put on himself.

"Who's up for some Barbra?"

Her reaction should've been predictable.

"Oh I love Duck Sauce!"

Of course, her being Brittany, it– yeah it just wasn't.

- SCENE CHANGE-

"I'm worried about that kid," she said, pushing the buttons on the way-too-expensive coffee machine.  
Then again, there were expensive surgeon's who needed the caffeine nutrition.

He, of course, immediately knew who she was talking about, but he still refrained to saying; "Who?" as an answer.

She just gave him the stare, before grabbing the two cups of coffee.

They were still at the hospital, which wasn't very surprising since he often joined her at these hours, when it was relatively calm for her.  
Surgeries were usually scheduled in the morning or at night. Late afternoons were kept for emergencies.  
Emergencies like Kurt.

"The kid you brought in," she said.

"Is it because he's gay?" he grumbled, "Because seriously…"

"It's not because he's gay," she sighed, nearly annoyed with him.

That was, surprising, to say the least. He felt uncomfortable.

"It's just that his iron-levels were really low and—"

He grabbed one of the cups, bringing it to his mouth, "so he has anemia."

She glared at him with a stare that was almost familiar, because he'd seen it so often in the mirror.

"Fuck, will you let me finish?" she complained, "I just mean that he seems to have serious sleeping-issues."

Trust the kid to turn sleep into something weird.

"Are you sure you didn't see anything when you were with him?" she said.

Now he was the one rolling his eyes, "I told you, nothing was wrong with him, he was just… lying there."  
Like a too pretty porcelain doll.

"Because I've checked his charts and though his family tried to sell us a very believable story of him being over-worked, he has a history of hospital-visits."

This spiked his interest, not that he'd admit that to her.

"Apparently, he suffers from a very severe, but unknown sleep-disease, giving him night-terrors every time he sleeps."

Dave raised an eyebrow at his mom, still feigning disinterest, while carefully over thinking the received information in his head.

Kurt had been fine when he saw him sleep the other day, no nightmares at all, right?

_Without warning, Kurt's heart monitor suddenly started beeping loudly and fast-paced and Kurt's body started trembling on the bed.  
_

_Panic flooded back into Dave's system, as he hurried towards the bed, watching in horror as Kurt's face contorted and he released a scream of absolute pain.  
Dave had never heard a cry so agonised, but Kurt's eyes remained firmly closed. A nightmare?  
_

_Not knowing what to do, Dave pressed the red, emergency-button that would call the nurse and stared at the boy in horror. His hands moving around wildly, as if trying to scratch at unseen faces, trying to get away from them.  
Another desperate moan rose from what seemed the depths of his chest and Dave once more felt the nudge of instinct in the back of his mind and he grasped Kurt's hand, placing the other at his shoulder._

Dave swallowed, confused to the depth of his mind.

"Is he known to quiet down due to skin-contact, maybe familiarity?" he questioned, because he'd touched Kurt's skin more then once.  
So had the lockers.

She looked at him with half lidded eyes, over the top of her cup, "No, not really. From what I've seen, it gets worse when you touch him? Tends to get violent. Some of these hospital visits were because he accidentally hurt himself. Why?"

"Nah, nothing. Usual night-terrors are soothed by familiar presences," he replied.

She passed him on the way to the trashcan, petting his head, "Nice to know you pay attention."

He just grumbled something.

Why would Kurt calm down when _he_ of all people was near him? It didn't make sense, Kurt was scared of him! His whole body-language before he fainted had shown so much.  
He'd winced when Dave had approached him, staggered backwards.

It wasn't like Dave wasn't used to this, people being scared of him and it wasn't like he didn't think he, or Azimo, deserved just that; people's hate and fear.  
But for Kurt, who was apparently highly somniphobiac –which Dave would be too if he suffered from nightmares every damn time he _slept_— to calm down from _his_ presence was point flat weird.

_And then, the door was slammed into his face, Kurt's last, bloodcurdling scream echoing in his ears. _

"Maybe you should go visit him," she offered, examining his thoughtful expression like the ex-psychology-student she was, "Care for him a little, Dave, he seems like he needs it.

"No."  
He had done enough.

"As his doctor, I do insist that there should be a check up. And who could I trust more then my personally trained boy?"

He sighed, but knew he would've done it anyway, just to make sure he was okay.

Maybe because he really didn't want the kid to die or because he felt sorry for all the times he hurt him, he didn't know.  
He didn't think he could have resisted the near-want to know if Kurt was all right that had settled into his bones.

It was a familiar feeling. After all, he'd been feeling weird things for and because of the fashion-diva in the last couple of months.

- SCENE CHANGE-

"Your dad's not going to like you for stayin' home alone."

"He won't if you don't tell him," Kurt said to Finn, staring up into his foster brother's face sternly.

"But what if I come home and find you passed out! What am I supposed to do, then?"

Kurt sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  
It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Finn's concern, but he felt fine. He felt completely fine.

"Do I look unconscious to you?" he remarked, crossing his arms over his chest defensively, because he knew what he was doing was wrong, but he was a free-spirit, or at least he should be in his own home.

"No," the quarterback said, his voice unsure.  
Kurt smirked, knowing this as a clear sign he was going to win the discussion.

"And I've dealt with it all these years before. I'm absolutely fine, Finn, I swear," he continued, "just because I fainted once doesn't mean I'm suddenly worse then I was before!"

Finn stared at him for a few seconds, before grabbing his arm and dragging a protesting Kurt into the living room.

He turned the tenor around to face him, still holding on to his arms, before carefully saying; "Listen, Kurt," he took a deep breath, "I care about you, you know that, don't make me say it again."

Kurt nodded, slightly intimidated but mostly knowing he was in no way stronger then the football-player.

"But what happened? That really scared me, you know? Seeing you laying there in that hospital bed, attached to all kinds of scary stuff. You didn't _see_ that Kurt, it looked like a scene from one of your series," he nodded towards the TV, where Grey's Anatomy was still on hold, "For a second, I thought you were going to _die_."

Kurt's face, equally to Finn's, pulled a little. He hadn't realised the impact he'd made on his brother.

"I haven't seen your father that upset since, ever,"

His family.

"Please take care of yourself a little, at least for them," at that point, he stopped looking into Kurt's eyes, "For me."

Kurt swallowed, folding his own arms around himself when Finn released him, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, guilt written all over his face.

Finn smiled, the same crooked smile Kurt had once adored so, but now knew was meant only comfortingly.  
"It's never nice to see Karofsky so close to you."

Kurt pulled a face, still not quite over the fact that Karofsky had shown that kind of humanity.

"Yeah," Kurt drawled, making a shuddering motion.

"He did calm you down though," Finn replied thoughtfully, "But hey, you know what? If you say you're fine then I believe you."

Kurt didn't listen, focussed solely on the first six words of Finn's sentence, the boy himself blissfully unaware of the reaction he caused.

"I was actually going to meet up with Puck, Sam and the guys, there's a football match on tonight."

Karofsky had calmed him down? That wasn't possible; nobody had told him he was calm when Karofsky was with him. Why hadn't anybody told him?  
It didn't make any sense! Nobody could call him down when he was caught in a nightmare, multiple of their hospital bills were because of Kurt hitting or hurting someone that was trying to help him.

"So what about I don't tell Burt or my mom about you ditching your babysitters and you give me a call as soon as you think something is going to happen, okay? Trust for trust, right bro?"

Finn must've misjudged, seen something wrong, spoken without thinking.

"You do have my right number, right? The one after I dropped my last phone into the toilet? Kurt?"

The young singer shook his head, snapping out of his thoughts, as Finn waved his fingers in front of his face, concern immediately taking over on his face again.

"Okay, it was a bad idea, I shouldn't leave you alone, you can't call me when you fall asleep," he said, already starting to pull off his jacket, "I'll call Puck— no I'll call Sam, he'll remember and I'm going to watch the reruns tomorrow or something…"

Guilt sunk into Kurt's stomach as he watched the taller man fuss over nothing.  
If he was really honest, he would like spending some time with Finn. Ever since the failed milk-incident, they hadn't spent much quality time together, as brothers.  
But he didn't want to ruin Finn's fun, too. The dreams already took too much from him and his family. So he put his foot down.

"No, Finn, you can go to your football-game," he interrupted, picking up the jacket –inconspicuously stroking a few folds out of it— and holding it out to Finn, "I'm not going anywhere, okay? I won't do something stupid and I'll take care of myself."

He pulled the most solemn face he could muster and started pushing the tall form towards the door.

"I'm home; I've fallen asleep at home before," he joked, "Carole will be home soon."

This seemed to relax Finn a little, allowing Kurt to pretty much shove him out the door.

"Okay, okay," he said, quickly snatching his car-keys before turning around one last time, "But call me if _anything_ happens, okay?"

"Okay," he uttered softly, remaining in the open door until the car had pulled out of the driveway and was speeding up towards what Kurt suspected was Mike Chang's house.

Then he sighed, though happily.  
Right, taking care of himself, he could do that.

With an excited smile, he hurried back into the house, knowing that with at least another hour of alone-time left, there was plenty time to have a nice hot bath, do a facial and maybe throw in some mani- and pedicures.

He didn't notice a pair of green-brown eyes watching him, a soft smile on the face they belonged to.

******************************************************************************************

**God, Dave seems like such a creeper… Sorry 'bout that.  
Sorry for the kinda fillerish chapter too, I promise there's going to be some Kurtofsky action next chapter. ^-^  
Watch Brittany, she's on to something. *ba-dum cha* **


	5. I do not snore!

**Due to popular demand, this chapter contains a fragment of Kurt's nightmares.  
However, ****since this chapter also contains Karofsky, it isn't as bad. I suppose.  
Take that how you will. Love you and enjoy!**

Karofsky frowned at the reddish clouds sailing by above him; squinting at them through the window of his car, as though they could help him make the decision.  
There weren't many of them, mostly it were just puffs of white passing by with leisurely calmth Dave was almost jealous of.

The soft red of an evening cloud reflected in his eyes, just before he closed them, leaning his head back against the seat and popping the joints of his neck.

Once more, his mother had talked him into something.  
Not that he'd put up that much resistance, but it felt nice to blame her, even though he knew he shouldn't.  
Like it had always been fun to blame Hummel— to blame Kurt, for everything.

Though, it didn't weigh up. It didn't weigh up at all.

Snapping his head back and opening his eyes his fingers snatched for the door, opening it quickly and stepping out before he could stop himself.  
He barged towards the door of the residence, taking a few deep breaths.

_Why was he so nervous?_ _Why did Hummel matter so much, all of a sudden? _

It wasn't like he couldn't take the lithe boy if he got ugly with him. In bodily strength, he wouldn't win.  
Not without the latter being backed up by authorities, he wouldn't.

Dave had the nagging suspicion it wasn't truly about that though and was severely aware of the fact that the boys mouth –his words— could be far more hurtful then Dave's fist.

The same fist knocking the door several times, loudly, in case Kurt was still playing the horrible music he'd been playing earlier.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming!" Dave heard from the other side of the door, along with the rushing of hasty footsteps.  
The door was unlocked and opened, revealing a smiling, very wet-looking Kurt Hummel, whose smile disappeared immediately when he saw who was at his door.

_While he was home alone_, Dave finished in his head, but if he'd done it any other way, either the elder Hummel or Finn Hudson would've probably tried to kill him, again.

It was a vague thought in the back of his mind, though, for the rest of it was occupied with, well, _Kurt._

He _was_ soaked, looking like he'd just stepped out of the shower; water-stains growing where the thin shirt, which he had obviously thrown on in a haste, stuck to his torso and water-drops dripping off his nose.  
He was on bare feet and his face lacked any kind of make-up.  
Not that he wore a lot of that stuff, but he looked— Natural.

His hair was nearly black now and hung in strands in his face, falling into the pale eyes, which were looking up at Dave with a reserved hesitance, but they weren't fearful, like when the boy collapsed by their cars.

All in all, he looked exactly like he had before, like Dave remembered him, only prettier.

Dave shook his head and this seemed to snap Kurt out of it too, the calm demeanour vanishing immediately as his he pulled his hand to his hip, the other clutching the door– as if ready to slam it into his face.

"What do you want?" he questioned, feigning calmth, but unable to suppress the Diva in him. As ever.

"I came to see how you were doing," Dave merely answered, shrugging vaguely and cocking a head at the younger one.

This seemed to surprise Kurt, Dave observed, following the little bob of the younger's throat as the boy swallowed and he smiled softly at Kurt's scoff.

"I'm fine," said Kurt, slightly annoyed, while scooting backwards a little, "I'm absolutely fine. Never been better. Perfectly good. Extraordinarily fabulous. Happy?"

"Not feeling dizzy, shallow breathing?" Dave questioned calmly, not about to be waved off.

Kurt arched a sculpted eyebrow, "No."

"Any kind of tremors, restlessness?"

"Who are you, my doctor?" Kurt wanted to know, releasing the door and crossing his arms across his chest.

"Your doctor's son, actually, answer the question."

Kurt looked positively pissed when he gave his 'no'.

"Snoring…" – "I do not snore!"

He forgot how easily offended Kurt was, "Rapid eye movement, Bruxism?"

The boy across him pulled a face, "What?"

Dave nearly laughed at his confused expression, before answering; "If you clench or grind those invisible teeth of yours, Hummel."

"I do _not_ grind my teeth!" He nearly screeched, through clenched teeth, making it sound like a hiss, "and they're very much visible, buckteeth, thank you very much!"

Dave smiled, suddenly realising how much he actually _missed _this. Not the name-calling –and he was pretty sure his dental health had just been insulted— but he missed the sassy attitude the singer possessed, the backtalk he gave him.  
Nobody ever back talked him, except for the glee-kids. But none of them ever quite like Kurt.

He _missed_ the remarks, the dry humour and it was the weirdest realisation yet.

Was it weird to miss the very thing he thought he'd been loathing before, the one thing he'd hurt so badly?

"That's good," he told the irritated countertenor, "so…"

"Ugh," Kurt muttered under his breath, "would you stop the damn interrogation, please?"

"Night terrors?" Dave finished, expectantly.

This shut him up neatly, leaving him stammering  
"I– I don't…"

He stared at Dave, as if trying to figure something out while trying to find something to say as well.  
"Well… I do, but that's not— it's not related to the incident," he managed, his cheeks flaring, but looking at the man outside with a piercing stare, as if daring him to say something about it.

_He knows I know._

"I know," the jock said softly, confirming the unsaid words and loosing the teasing tone in his voice completely, frowning at the smaller boy.

A breeze blew from over the garden behind him, stirring the neat grass and making Kurt shudder softly.  
He was wearing way too little clothes.

They just stared at each other for long moments, pale blue staring into mixed brown, trying to figure the other one out, trying to unravel the secrets behind the irises of their eyes.

Kurt seemed to relax when he found no hostility, but tensed a little when Dave reached out to touch the goose bumps on his arm.

"Either let me in or shut me out now, you're going to get sick," he commented softly, all of this feeling like an out-of-body experience.  
But it was a chilly evening, he suspected a clear night approaching, and he really didn't want Kurt to get sick, again.

Kurt actually seemed to consider it, opening the door a little further, but jumping when both of them heard a car approaching. A familiar car, judging by Kurt's reaction.

It was enough; the little look of near-disappointment on his face, it was enough.

"Take care of yourself, Kurt," he said, sounding awfully like his grandfather, and stalked off again, towards his car.

He didn't look back, not once. He'd think about what the hell just happened later.  
For now, he just wanted to remember the little smile on the angular, pale face.

- SCENE CHANGE -

Kurt held onto the door with white-clenched fingers as he blinked after the car that still carried the dents of where his had slammed into it, passively watching as it drove down the street, turning the corner, until it was out of sight.

He shook his head, feeling the half-wet strands of his hair stick to one another and his damp skin.  
He made a face, scrunching his nose and making a mental note to borrow Carole's hairdryer, because he'd kicked _his_ off his bedside-table during a nightmare.  
He suppressed a shudder at the memory as he turned towards the other car, now pulled up into the drive-way.

"Kurt, hey," his father greeted, "what are you doing outside? Shouldn't you—"

"I'm fine, dad," said Kurt, pushing the door open further, "this isn't exactly new to me, remember?"

His father nodded silently.  
They both knew Kurt's confinement to the house was more because, and in the best interest off the Hudson-part of their family.  
Kurt however, observant as ever, didn't miss the worry on Burt's face.

"I was… seeing my friends out," he lied smoothly, hating to do so.  
Karofsky-related anger out weighted honesty. (And the fact that he'd been alone.)

"Mercedes, Rachel and Brittany came over when Carole went shopping."

There. Covered.

His father bought it, "You have any idea when she'll be back? It's pretty late already."

Kurt glanced outside when he closed the door behind his father; it was far into twilight already. He hadn't noticed it getting dark outside and he wondered how much time he'd spend in the bathroom.  
Maybe he should cut back on his moisturizing-time.

Nah.

"Dad?" He questioned, flopping down on the couch again, "can I go back to school tomorrow? Please?"  
He asked with his nicest voice, knowing fully well his father had a weak spot for it.  
And not just because it was an exact replica of his mother's.

Burt send him a glance from over at the coffee-machine, as if letting the thought sink in.

"If you sleep tonight," he said.

Kurt winced, because his father had once again guessed spot on that he hadn't been planning on doing so.  
He had energy, after all. He would survive.

"But dad!" He tried in vain.

His dad turned around with _that _look on his face, telling Kurt that his father was in 'daddy-mode' not taking any shit Kurt might give him.

"No, Kurt," he confirmed Kurt's suspicion, "I'm not going through seeing you like that again."

All their words made Kurt feel so guilty. Finn's words, his father's words, Carole's concern.  
_Karofsky's apparent worry_.

He looked away, trying to look like he wasn't agreeing with it, but understanding all the while.  
It wasn't like he could help it! He didn't ask for this.

He folded his legs beneath him, whispering a soft 'okay' to his father and proceeding to stare out of the living-room window, trying to mentally prepare for what he hoped wasn't coming.

- SCENE CHANGE -

"I'll be up in my room," Kurt said, taking both his and Carole's plate.

It had been a late dinner, because Finn's football-date had run late and Carole didn't want him living on pizza. 'Didn't get him this tall on faux-Italian food' she'd say.  
Kurt had long since decided to silently disagree with her. He ate healthy food all his life and look where _that _got him.

"Okay, sweetie, try to get some sleep, okay?" Carole said affectionally, glad that Kurt didn't wince at the endearment anymore.

"Yeah," he said, "I'll try."

He didn't want to, but he'd try. For them and a little for himself.  
Maybe he'd been wrong, maybe the medication he'd gotten _had _done something. Karofsky couldn't be the reason he'd slept so well.  
It couldn't be.

"Goodnight," he waved.

He smiled at the chorus of goodnight's, though two slightly muffled by the food.

He padded down the hallway on socked feet, turning the lights on as he went, trying to create as much light as possible, just to soothe his conscience.

Kurt sighed when he closed the door behind him, pulling a hand through his hair. He wondered how messed up it was that he got nearly nauseous at the sight of his bed.

He hated this; he hated feeling so out of control.

He pulled off his designer shirt, folding it as neatly as possible, postponing.

He'd always been a dreamer, people knew him as such. But it had always been his own made-up dreams.  
Dreams of becoming a performer, to sing professionally and maybe get famous on the way too.  
Dreams of finding true love, even though it had been shot down time and time before. He had so many dreams, but never got to experience them in his sleep, like any normal person.

Yes, he even dreamed about being normal, even though his extraordinarily was one of his biggest traits.

He'd long since accepted not being like other kids.  
Not with dreams, not with bodily strength, not with sexuality.

It sucked, Kurt concluded, stepping into his bed.

He had been more tired then he'd thought, though. Because he was out the moment his head hit the pillow.

-

_He stared at the gravestone with sad eyes, raindrops dribbling over his cheeks. A black raven crowed above him, filling the scene with a sense of dread.  
The grave was covered in moss, worn by the elements that raged over the graveyard, but it was so familiar he would recognise it everywhere._

_Still, he walked closer, his fingers reaching out to trace the carvings in the stone as he kneeled before it.  
He felt the ice cold wind cut through his hair and over his exposed skin, but he didn't care.  
He kept staring at the hurtful words in front of him._

'Elizabeth Hummel' 

_The date was covered in moss, but the words stung enough for him to withdraw his hand as if it had burned him._

His tears dripped on the ground beneath him. His loose jeans dirtied by the mud. His body was cold, nearly to a state of being frozen, but he didn't care.  
The pain racing through his chest was enough to forget about everything but the words.

"Don't." A soft voice suddenly said, making his head snap up in confusion.

The face above him was sad. Did he see the words too?  
It was a bit rectangular, with short, brown hair and a bit of a stubble.

"Don't die," the man said.

He squinted his eyes, blinking as the man seemed to blur around the edges, as if slipping away. As if he turned blind, unable to see him.  
The red jersey was so familiar.

"Please don't die," he said again, his hand reaching for the headstone.

He didn't reach it, the hand faded away before his eyes and he was left to stare at where the man had been standing.  
He didn't want him to go, because he knew something bad was going to happen when he went.  
He didn't want him to die, so he had to be nice, right?

His eyes moved down to the headstone and suddenly, a fear like never before filled his chest as his own pale hand reached out for the cold granite.  
His fingertips brushed the moss before the name and he gasped as it gave away immediately.

He flinched and recoiled, cradling his hand against his chest.

'Kurt Elizabeth Hummel'

It was right there, on the stone, a name. His _name.  
His very own name staring back at him from a grave. His hand closed over his mouth, trying to keep himself from screaming. Trying to keep his hand from scratching his eyes out so he wouldn't be able to see it._

"No," he whispered, "I'm not dead. I can't be."

Whispers rose from all around him, telling him he was, telling him he should die.  
He clamped his hands over his ears, trying to shut them out. Silently pleading for them to stop.

"No," he whispered.

"Yes," they countered.

Shadows rose from all around him, like smoke they slipped over headstones, reaching out towards him like stretched limbs.  
They laughed and cried out his name over and over again.

'Kurt Elizabeth Hummel' – 'Kurt Elizabeth Hummel' – 'Kurt' – 'Kurt'

He whimpered as they closed in, forming a wall of black smoke, closing in, suffocating him. They clawed at the hem of his trousers, grasping for his ankles as he desperately tried to get away from them.  
He tried to call for the man, the man who didn't want him to die.

But how could he call for someone he didn't know?

He tried to get up, but stumbled as a shadow wrapped itself around his leg.

"Please," he begged, "leave me alone."

"Never," they promised.

The smoke wrapped around his limbs, tangling themselves and cutting into the exposed flesh of his torso, stinging like poisonous vines.

"So weak," they taunted him, "Never better, never enough."

He could feel blood flowing over his skin, staining the already dirty fabric of his pants.  


"_Please," he sobbed, clawing at the earth with hopeless nails, but to no avail as the vines of smoke started dragging him towards the grave._

As he realised what they were trying to do, he started screaming. Screaming so hard his throat hurt, but he kept screaming.

"Help me!" He yelled, as a shadow snaked around his neck, tightening painfully. An extension of the same vine wrapping around his head and over his mouth, digging painfully into his lips until they bled.

But the man didn't return to help him, nobody came to save him. He felt the earth opening beneath him and never in his young life had he felt so lonely.

Maybe he deserved this, maybe he should cease to disappear. Then he wouldn't bug anyone anymore, wouldn't annoy those around him.  
It was clear no-one loved him. Not enough to risk the shadows. __

He hung his head in defeat, allowing the vines to drag him towards the stone.

He wasn't worth saving. He'd never really doubted this, he had just hoped.  
But why? He had long since learned not to hope. He was doomed; the shadows would always come back. They would always haunt him, always hurt him.  
He didn't know why he still fought. There was no reason to.

New tears mixed with the blood and mud on his face, flushed with the pain of his tormenting restraints as they slowly suffocated him.  
He felt like he was drowning, slowly dying within the arms of all his fears.

Then the vines dropped him and he fell. He never stopped falling.

"I'll catch you." 


	6. I AM kind of tired

It had been a few weeks since Karofsky's 'visit' and things hadn't considerably gotten better for Kurt.  
After the initial wave of energy and the rush of happiness when he'd gotten out of the hospital, loved and helped by his friends and family, things, especially his nightmares, had gotten worse.  
The dream he'd had that specific night –which Kurt, of course, remembered _perfectly_— was mellow compared to some of the things he had to suffer through in the weeks that followed.  
Kurt didn't think they'd ever been so horrifying.  
He woke up in cold sweat every time, sometimes screaming so hard he couldn't sing for days. Realistic ones alternated with dreams so abstract he couldn't even put his finger on _why _they terrified him so much except for the horror he felt. He'd jump and nearly wet himself when there was a mere shadow he hadn't noticed and even the ones he did expect there to be were making him skittish.

He'd always managed; worked with his… he guessed he could call it a disability. He worked fine with a few hours lack of sleep. He never let anyone notice, but this was just too much.

And it wasn't just the dreams -though they were the main cause— because due to the lack of sleep, Kurt's grades were starting to drop, too.  
Normally, grades were no problem at all for the intelligent, witty boy. He tackled most of his subjects effortlessly. He'd always been intelligent; got it from his mother, Burt would say.  
But courses at Dalton Academy were considerably harder then at McKinley and the people were a lot more attentive.

Last week, he'd gotten into a fight with Blaine, because he –of course— refused to tell him what was 'wrong' with him, why he had bruises beneath his eyes or why he was so tired all the time.

What should he tell him?  
_ "It's nothing, I've just been having these bed-wetting-scary nightmares since I was eight and they've kind of gotten worse since I came here, no big deal. I just tend to stay awake for days, get scared of the silliest things and forget dinner-dates, 's all!" _

Nobody ever noticed at McKinley, except for Mercedes, who never talked about it because Kurt didn't want to.  
Blaine, however, was an entirely different matter; he was severely unimpressed with Kurt's backtalking and immediately knew when Kurt was trying to distract him from a subject he wanted to avoid.  
He was very understanding, but not very appreciative of Kurt 'not trusting him' as he would phrase it.  
The thing was that Kurt _did_ trust him, too much to risk loosing him over his secret.

And Kurt, as a severely sensitive being, couldn't really handle the fight and hadn't been able to concentrate at all, resulting in even worse grades.  
He'd gotten a B-minus, a _B-minus!, _in French, a C in biology, because he messed up his and Blaine's experiment and another C-minus in literature, because he'd forgotten to re-read the Shakespeare plays and couldn't even remember lady Capulet's maiden name!  
The list went on and on and on.

It was frustrating and Kurt was tired of it.

He was tired all the damn time, but still.

_ "I'm your friend, Kurt; you should tell me if something is going on! Don't you trust me?"_

Kurt buried his head in his hands, sighing deep. Blaine couldn't know. His pride wouldn't let him tell him. The concern would be so, _so_ nice, but he didn't want the empathy.  
It was bad enough that Karofsky knew!

And his family, especially Finn, wasn't really impressed nor worried by the bad marks and they, especially Carole, kept watching him like hawks. Pampering him, keeping him from his studying and generally taking care of him, whenever it seemed Kurt felt bad.  
There wasn't much they could do though and more often then not, it just irritated Kurt. He appreciated their effort from the Hudson's though.

He absolutely hated being irritated by them, because he loved them to much to be angry at them or sulk in peace.

Burt had lived with the Kurt and his nightmares longer and, at least, was accustomed to letting Kurt take care of himself. Kurt was the one who knew what was going on, to Burt's opinion, so he was the one that knew what was best for himself.  
But lately, he seemed to have lost trust in his son's capability of looking after himself.

It hadn't been exactly pleasant when Burt had caught him watching the sound of music in the depths of night.

_ "You can't go on like this Kurt, it's unhealthy! Even you, yourself, say it's starting to get bad. Don't make me force sleep on ya, kid." _

But his father didn't know; he didn't know just how scared Kurt was of his nightmares.  
Nobody knew, nobody understood, nobody ever would…

Kurt rose from his place on the edge of the Dalton-fountain when he saw Blaine approach.

"Blaine, please, I'm sorry…"

Blaine looked at him with the saddest eyes Kurt had ever seen, but the elder boy merely shook his head and brushed past him, his fingers reaching out to squeeze Kurt's hand for two mere little seconds, almost making Kurt sob.

_ "I hate it when people don't trust me, Kurt, especially the ones I have dear to my heart. I know this is difficult for you, but it is for me too. I hate to see you suffer, but I can't help you if you don't let me; we can't be friends like this if you don't trust me!"_

Kurt swallowed loudly, his fingers reaching after Blaine uselessly and standing frozen as the school emptied around him, the students going home, back to their dorms or do whatever else kids did nowadays.

Would Blaine understand? Would he understand the terror Kurt felt when they threw him in a dumpster; an endless dumpster with razor-sharp blades and snapping teeth, a dumpster that got smaller and smaller, cutting him, bruising him at every chance they got? Would he get his fear of that never ending darkness, filled with flashes of cold laughter?

Somehow, Kurt didn't think so.  
Even the man from the graveyard hadn't turned up in his nightmares to soothe him anymore.

_ "There's no prince on the white horse, Kurt, just pricks in white Cadillac's." _

Oh, how he missed Mercedes and the way she always knew perfectly what to say to him.

_ "I think it is because Kurt doesn't scrub the fireplace, so he doesn't have a fairy-godmother to help him find one." _

And Brittany, whose comments, however blunt, showed how much she cared. He would stare at her plushie-gift for hours sometimes, just looking.

_ "I don't think princes are very attracted to girls, or boys, that scrub fireplaces." _

Even Rachel still came along often, even now that she was convinced his recovery was complete. She said it was because he was the only one that could truly appreciate her voice and technique, but he suspected she just genuinely liked him.

_"So you scrub fireplaces? How does that work?_"

He smiled, Tina had come along too. It was so sweet of her to come, even though she was terribly shy.

His feet started moving, towards the parking lot, where he send a small smile to Finn, who was once again faithfully waiting for him.  
His car was still in scraps, because Burt had been too busy with customers to deal with his car.

The little act of kindness when Finn would pick him up whenever he could find time did wonders for Kurt's mood and he send a silent 'thank you' to the universe for the amazing friends and family it gave him.

He send a glance back at the massive school-building when he buckled himself in and couldn't help but wonder; what did it hold for him without Blaine? What was this school to him except for a hiding place? What was it to him now that Karofsky actually seemed civil?

-~~-SCENE CHANGE-~~-

"Kurt?" Burt's voice was a little strained as he watched the light of the TV flicker over his son's pale complexion, the remote hanging limply in his hand, the other one sipping yet another cappuccino while his eyes stared unblinkingly at the screen.  
He usually left Kurt alone when it came to his… condition, because Kurt usually managed just right, but lately he had been worrying more and more about his only son.  
The kid was right; he'd passed out before, but never quite like he had a few weeks ago, it was worrying Burt endlessly.

He watched as Kurt's head tiredly turned towards him.

"Maybe you should go to bed," he offered gently, "you look very tired."

"I _am _very tired," came the half-joking reply.

Burt approached the couch and sat down beside Kurt like the boy was made of porcelain, just looking at him for a few seconds before he spoke the thoughts that had been passing through his head for quite some time now.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?"

He wasn't surprised to see Kurt frown slightly, scrunching up his nose exactly the way his mother always did.

"Yes," he replied sourly, pulling his legs up to wrap his arms around them.

Burt simply kept looking at his son, a silent invitation to keep talking.

"It's always been bad," he mumbled against his knees, "but manageable, you know? But lately, it's just been plain awful. I am honestly afraid to go to sleep now, because it's not just unpleasant anymore…"

Burt felt honestly powerless, as he stretched his arm to wrap to around Kurt's shoulders, feeling him sag against his father.

"How long did you used to go without sleep?" it was such a weird question to ask from his son. His _child_.  
But he'd long since accepted the fact that Kurt had troubles with his sleep, like he had with the fact that Kurt was gay, even if he felt uncomfortable talking about his insomnia.

"A day, sometimes two," Kurt said softly, as if he already knew what his father was going to ask next.

"And recently?"

Kurt sighed and mumbled something under his breath, glancing at Burt's unconvinced face before he decided on 'four days now'.

"Kurt…" The mechanic sighed; racing his mind for what the doctors always said was healthy.  
36 hours? 48?

"Don't start, Dad, you don't know what it's like."

His words were mumbled into Burt's shoulder, but his father's ears were so used to the sound of Kurt's voice that he heard every word perfectly clear.  
He waited for Kurt to start talking again.

After a few minutes, Kurt swallowed deeply and snuggled deeper into his father's embrace.

"Every time I fall asleep, I dream the most horrible things; you can't even imagine. I can't believe _I_ can imagine. Things that hurt me, on the mentally or physically, it doesn't even matter; there's never a mark on me when I wake up, except for the occasional bruise when I hit myself, trashing. They hurt me with their words or with their images, they hurt my friends and my family and I can't do a thing about it."

Burt just held Kurt while he talked, as the load of words fell from Kurt's lips like a waterfall.

"Once, I dreamed I was at a graveyard, or rather, at a grave. One single grave. I thought it was mom's and I felt so lonely. I was the only one there, save for the headstone…" He took a deep breath, "It turned out the grave was mine and they dragged me into it, through the mud, like a worthless ragdoll."

Burt's face turned into a mask of horror for just a few seconds before he pulled his son even tighter against him.

"Or when I dreamed I stood atop a skyscraper, surrounded by the whole glee-club. I stood there in nothing but worn Pepe Jeans and a ripped Armani shirt, freezing while they chanted for me to just jump, because no-one wanted me around anyway."

"They would nev—"

"I know that, dad, I know that _now_. But when I'm asleep, it's all so real. I can't _not _believe it. Everywhere I go, I see memories and everywhere I go, I run into walls that I just can't break down! I'm trapped inside them like a rat and I never wake up until it's over…"

Suddenly Kurt pulled away from him, standing up and walking to the window of the living room, staring blankly through it as if he'd forgotten his father was even there and instead he was talking to the moon.

"But it's never over; they always keep coming back, like the endless hallways full of crying, dying children. Like the endless shadows that keep covering me when I'm trying to reach the light. Like the grey room with no doors, no windows no anything, just a prison of grey. It's endless."

Tears ran freely over his face now and Burt saw he finally reached his limit. He was tired, he was sick, he was haunted.

"It will never stop!" Kurt hissed through clenched teeth, softly sobbing misfortune at the stars as he crumpled to the ground, his hands pressed to his face to hide it. He was trying to hold back even now, attempting to hold up the shields he'd build around him.

Burt stood up and crouched besides him, wrapping his arms around his son again, pulling him tightly against him.

'I can't take this anymore, I can't take them… I can't' his sobs seemed to say.

'I know,' Burt's soft, comforting rubs over his arms said back, 'you're so brave, Kurt, you've been so strong'.

Because sometimes, words weren't needed between father and son, just like Kurt would sometimes chatter endlessly on about something, they could be silent together as well, understanding each other like they did when they mourned over her, when comforted each other.

Maybe it wasn't so much the parental bond, the love between father and son, but rather a bond between two people that had went through a lot together and got each other through.

And now, while Kurt's fingers clutched painfully at the mechanic's shirt, digging his short, razor-sharp nails into his skin, Burt simply didn't really care, because he'd do anything to protect Kurt, to help him, even if this was the only thing he could do.

"Just make it stop, please dad."

How he wished he could. He had wished for a cure since the very beginning.

"I don't know how," he admitted and felt tears of his own fall down his cheeks as he cradled Kurt's body in his arms.

When he looked down, the boy's eyes were closed.

-~~~ To be continued ~~~-

**Yes, it's a filler, yes, it's late, yes, I suck and yes, you are allowed to tell me so in a review.  
Or not, no pressure, but I'll try to squeeze out a new chapter sooner. I've actually planned ahead this time, so I know roughly what's going to happen.**

Then again, I'm not really good with planning, so if this story decides to make decisions for itself, I'm not to blame.

Maybe just a little… *goes into hiding*

*peeps up* and yes, there WILL be more Karofsky soon, promise!  
Even though Born this way made me realise actually how OOC he's become in this particular story… Do you guys want me to fix that? (which roughly means; mean, troubled, canon-Karofsky or kind of nice, realised-the-errors-of-his-ways-Karofsky? Or a mix of both?) 


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